


Anochecer

by wickedblackbird



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 17:16:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18056747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedblackbird/pseuds/wickedblackbird
Summary: Spoilers for Chapter Six, departure from canon after “Just a Social Call”. Arthur finally tells Dutch he’s dying. Dutch feels his world collapse.---“I’m -- I’m dyin’, Dutch.” It was the first time he’d said it out loud. The silence that followed was deafening. Even the wind and the camp and the quiet sounds of the forest seemed to stop. Arthur saw Dutch’s shoulders tighten, entire body going stiff for a moment before he turned back around to stare at him.“What did you say?”





	Anochecer

**Author's Note:**

> This doesn't really fix anything, but it's a scene I desperately wanted. Largely set after the Chapter Six mission "Just a Social Call"

Arthur could hear the many hushed arguments around the camp before he was even off his horse. For a moment, he pressed his eyes shut and tried to remember to breathe. Everyone was so on edge, and he understood, he did, but none of it was helping. Particularly now, when Dutch was burning every bridge before they could even cross them.

“Alright?” John’s voice asked, surprisingly close, and Arthur opened his eyes to see the younger man standing just by his knee. He was holding his rifle, clearly on his way out to take his turn at guard duty. Arthur hopped down next to him, shaking his head.

“Not exactly,” he said, voice low. “Dutch just killed Leviticus Cornwall.”

“What?”

“Shot him dead right in the middle of Annesburg. The whole thing was a damn disaster.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. Well,” Arthur said, clapping John on the shoulder for a moment, hoping to convey some sense of security that he didn’t feel. For a moment he felt dizzy, the edges of his vision darkening, and he tried to shove back the coughing fit he knew was coming. “What’s done is done. Keep an eye out, brother. Yell if there’s trouble.”

“I will.” John paused before he moved away, looking like there was something else he wanted to say. Then, shook his head and left. 

Arthur allowed himself one more second to close his eyes and try to focus on getting air to his lungs. It was less successful than he would have liked, but his vision steadied enough that he didn’t think he would pass out. He had no desire to relive the panic he had felt in Saint Denis, and then again up at poor Mrs Balfour’s house. The awful, desperate need to just have some  _air_ ; the tight emptiness of his chest, the shadows closing in. Darkly, he wondered if that was how it would all end -- him, gasping and pathetic, choking on air as the world faded around him.

But that was morbid, and he had things needed doing. Arthur sighed again and straightened, then set about caring for his horse.

“You’re a good boy,” he muttered as he finished, brushing down where the saddle blanket had rested. A snort and a flick of the tail were his response, and he huffed out a slight chuckle.

“Alright, boy, we’re done.” One last pat, and Arthur turned towards the camp proper. Everyone he passed looked stressed, angry, fearful. He tried to set them on ease with his greetings, brief words of encouragement, but it was clear how little good it would do. They had turned into trapped animals, wounded and snapping at each other, withdrawing into themselves as they braced for the inevitable. Something was going to crack, and soon.

He was just so tired. He wished, desperately, that Hosea was still here. Hosea, with his calm voice and steady gaze and ability to reign Dutch in before he went too far. If that was even possible any more.

Swanson was waiting outside Arthur’s tent, looking tired but still clear-eyed. If nothing else good came out of this disaster, he was proud of the man for stepping up to his responsibilities, cleaning himself up, holding steady.

“Reverend,” he greeted.

“Mr Morgan.” Swanson hesitated for a moment, visibly steeling himself, eyes worried and hands fluttering anxiously by his sides.

“Are you alright, Mr Morgan? You don’t seem very well.” Arthur sighed.

“In all truth, I ain’t well, Reverend.”

“Oh. Oh, well, I’m very sorry to hear that.” And he honestly seemed to be. Arthur felt a mixture of grateful fondness and regret for his past impatience. He had been impatient with so many folk as hadn’t deserved it.

Swanson opened his mouth to say something else, but was cut off by Dutch’s voice ringing out as he strode across the camp towards them.

“Arthur! I need to talk to you for a moment. If you’ll excuse us, Reverend.”

“Oh, of course, of course.” Swanson scurried off, Arthur sparing him a brief, apologetic smile before entering his own tent after Dutch.

Dutch looked awful. Dark shadows had settled under his eyes, his hair was in disarray, and he had that strange, desperate look that had taken root ever since finding the gang in Lakay. Dutch was unraveling in front of him, and Arthur didn’t have the slightest idea how to stop it.

 _“Even my best friend thinks I’m crazy,”_  Dutch had told Leviticus Cornwall, and somehow that had hurt worse than all the accusations of disloyalty and cowardice. Maybe because, on some level, it was true. Maybe because there were moments when he didn’t recognise Dutch, couldn’t square the man in front of him, who was so willing to sacrifice any of them, to sacrifice  _John_ , with the man who had loved and laughed and cared for him for over twenty years now. And he needed that Dutch desperately, now more than ever.

A cough rustled in his chest, and Arthur squashed it down. He rubbed a hand over his jaw. Argument wasn’t in him right now. Not this close to his bed.

“What is it, Dutch?”

“I don’t know that I like your tone, Arthur. I did what I had to do.”

“Sorry. I know.” Another cough, not as easily suppressed. “Just tired.”

“We’re all tired, Arthur. We can rest once we’re  _safe_. We just need a bit of --”

“Money, I know.”

“Just one more score, and then we are free, son. We’ll disappear. You are supposed to trust me.”

“I do trust you, Dutch, but I just need you to stop and  _think_  for a minute --” His agitation rattled in his lungs, bursting forth in a harsh barrage of coughing that he couldn’t hold back. Arthur doubled over briefly, desperation starting to creep in, but thankfully his spasming lungs calmed before it turned into a full blown attack and he was able to straighten up again, only panting slightly.

“Will you just go see a goddamn doctor already?” Dutch asked, exasperated at the interruption.

“I been to the doctor already. Saw one in Saint Denis, not long after Guarma.”

“And he couldn’t give you something for that cough?” Dutch made a dismissive noise in the back of his throat, brushing past him and moving determinedly back towards his own tent. “I have got a plan, Arthur, and I need you strong for --”

“I’m -- I’m dyin’, Dutch.” It was the first time he’d said it out loud. The silence that followed was deafening. Even the wind and the camp and the quiet sounds of the forest seemed to stop. Arthur saw Dutch’s shoulders tighten, entire body going stiff for a moment before he turned back around to stare at him.

“What did you say?”

“I’m dying.” Repetition didn’t make it easier. Arthur rubbed an awkward hand over his mouth. Sighed. “Tuberculosis. Doc said he was real sorry, but it’s only a matter of time.”

“What?” For a moment, Dutch looked lost, confused, brows furrowed and mouth slightly open. Then, his teeth clicked shut, jaw clenching so hard that Arthur could hear it. He stormed back over and grabbed Arthur by the front of his vest, fists clenched tightly in the fabric. “And when, exactly, were you planning to tell me this?”

Dutch’s anger was like a punch in the gut. A reminder of how far they had fallen, that Arthur’s imminent demise could be just another roadblock in Dutch’s grand plan for one last score. Anger kindled briefly in Arthur’s chest --bright and hot and fast -- all tangled up in a complicated knot with the resentment and confusion and despair that had taken up residence.

“When was there time?” he asked. “We been running for our lives for months now. And I just. I just wanted to see everyone safe. ‘Fore I ain’t here to do it no more.”

Grief contorted Dutch’s features. He clenched his eyes shut and bowed his head quickly, but not before Arthur caught sight of the tears in his eyes.

“Dammit,” Dutch whispered hoarsely, gripping Arthur’s vest impossibly harder, drawing him closer. “ _Dammit!_ ”

And, just like that, any anger Arthur had left drained right out of him. He was left exhausted in its wake. Almost without conscious thought, his hands came up to cover Dutch’s.

“It’s alright,” he murmured. Comfort had never come easily to him, and comforting Dutch? Not something he had ever imagined having to do. “It’s, well.”

“We’ll find a way to fix this, Arthur,” Dutch told him, quiet, frantic. “There must be  _something_. I promise you, son, I -- we--”

“Ain’t something can be fixed, Dutch.”

The high, distressed noise Dutch made in response sounded like a wounded animal. Tears pricked at Arthur’s eyes. He had wanted Dutch to just  _stop_ , to look around and see what was happening. This was not what he had wanted.

He thought of that afternoon, standing on the shore near Clemens Point, imagined for a moment that he could still feel the warmth and the breeze and the contentment of a day spent with the two people he loved best in the world.

 _“As long as I have the two of you by my side, I know everything will be alright,”_  Dutch had said.

But it had been too late, even then, hadn’t it?

Arthur wasn’t sure how long they stood like that, Dutch’s hitched breathing the only noise in the oppressive stillness of the tent. It could have been seconds. It could have been days. Time, for a moment, stood still. Then, there was the crunching of approaching footsteps, and Micah’s grating voice dragging them back into the present.

“Dutch, we need to talk, get some of those plans firmed up!”

“Not now, Micah,” Dutch ground out, eyes and fists clenching even tighter.

“C’mon, Dutch, time’s a-wasting.”

“I said NOT NOW,” he roared, letting go of Arthur and wheeling around to face the other man. Micah stopped, putting his hands up in mock surrender.

“Alright, easy there.”

“I just need a goddamn minute,” Dutch said, voice cracking slightly on the last word.

“Don’t let him wear you down, Dutch,” Micah said, sneering at Arthur. “Just ‘cause Morgan here’s lost the stomach to do what needs to be done don’t mean the rest of us are cowards. Cut the weak loose, and we’ll start over fresh.”

Quicker than any of them could blink, Dutch had drawn his gun and had it aimed right between Micah’s eyes. Distantly, he could hear Arthur cursing, the rest of the camp clamouring in shock and confusion. All he could focus on was the way the smile slipped from Micah’s face and sweat beaded on his brow.

“Come on, now, Dutch. I didn’t mean nothing by it. Tell ‘im, Morgan. It -- it ain’t like that!”

“It is  _exactly_  like that,  _Micah_ ,” Dutch said, the tremble in his voice barely noticeable. “I am not cutting my family loose. That is not who I am -- not who  _we_  are.”

“No, no, of course not, Dutch! I wouldn’t dream of suggesting... Course Morgan’s part of the plan.”

Dutch sighed, let the hand holding the gun drop to hang by his side. The lines in his face were suddenly dreadfully apparent.

“Just get out of my sight, Micah,” he said in a low voice, and the other man hastily obeyed; scurried away, snapping at Abigail to “get out of the damn way.”

“Don’t the rest of you have work to do?” Dutch demanded of their remaining audience. They slowly moved back to their previous tasks, and he knew that they would have to have a talk soon. All of them. But not right now. His brain felt full of fog, had for weeks now, but he was starting to see where his hubris had brought them. Once upon a time, it had been so simple -- they had just needed enough for him, Hosea, and Arthur. They had each other, the stars, the open west. When had that stopped being enough?

 _“Oh, Dutch,”_  Annabelle had told him once, cupping his cheek in her hand.  _“You always make everything so complicated. We don’t need everything, we just need this.”_

But Annabelle was gone. So was Hosea. So were so many others, who had fallen under the wheel of his grand vision. And he was going to lose Arthur. Slowly. Painfully. By inches. Standing next to him, helpless, and watching him fade away.

When he turned around, Arthur was still standing there, watching him. Arthur’s expression was guarded, but Dutch had known him almost his whole life -- he could see the pain and fear in his eyes. He was afraid of Dutch, afraid of what he might do.

 _“Don’t you never leave love aside,”_ he had told Arthur.  _“It’s all we got.”_

And, by god it was. It was all they had left. It would have to be enough.

“We will figure something out,” he told Arthur firmly. Arthur sighed, but grasped his hand.

“Sure, Dutch. Sure.”

It would have to be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> "Anochecer" is the Spanish verb for "to grow dark/become night"
> 
> In this context, it is also a reference to The Littlest Birds' song of the same name.
> 
> I’m going home, this road has been so long,   
> The darkest part of night is just before the dawn,   
> Just before the dawn, I’m going home 
> 
> The water’s calm, the shore a rugged one   
> And yet under this moon I know I must go on   
> Know I must go on, I’m going home 
> 
> Each grain of sand, knows from whence it came   
> Its history brings it back to its own mountain   
> To its own mountain, I’m going home 
> 
> I’ve gone so far, this year has been so long,   
> In total darkness I can still find my way home   
> Still find my way home, I’m going home 
> 
> Beyond my sense, beyond sensibility   
> It’s in my bones, I know where I must be   
> Know where I must be, I’m going home 
> 
> I’ve spread my wings, be gone for a little while   
> But I’ll return one day if I go 10,000 miles   
> If I go 10, 000 miles, I’m going home


End file.
